Get the Look. Get the Rural France Look.

Unfortunately, Kate Moss was not available, so we had to make do with local people.










You've either got it or you haven't

The 'worker' look

The 'Floosy' look

'Double-denim' shocker



















Giant steps are what we take...



















What one does, the other has to do as well

The
'Rocker'
look

The 'Mud in Boots' look

The 'Bunny killer' look

Confessions

(Or the seven signs of ageing not cured by a bottle of face cream).


The other day I was in the supermarket fruit and veg section, buying fruit and veg. Over here you have to weigh and price up your fruit and veg yourself, they don't do it for you at the till. (You don't get to choose the price though, a sticker comes out of the machine after you've weighed it). Anyway, last week I tried to weigh the bread.

I like doing jigsaw puzzles. Preferably with a decent picture, not some image of swiss cottages on a mountside and the like.

I've started watching Countryfile. And not just because there's bugger all else on at the time, but because I enjoy it and find it interesting. Especially 'Adam's Farm', but I doubt that you know what I'm talking about.

Most of the time I'm not bothered by being so poor (other things make up for it). But just sometimes it's really shit.

I wasn't going to watch X-Factor this year, when the ads came on for it, I thought 'no, not again, same old sob stories, are there that many stupid people in the uk who think they can sing' etc etc, but once again I'm drawn in and compelled to watch. My top five by the way (in no particular order): Jamie, Danyl, The girl from Wales, the girl from Dagenham and the boy who isn't from Wales and doesn't wear a hat. You can tell I'm good with names. You may say it's another sign of ageing, but I've always been pants with names.

The 'fit before forty' campaign fell by the wayside.

Er, that's it. I did think of another one just now, but now I've forgotten it. That's ageing for you.

A few hours later and I've remembered:

This summer I have mostly been topping up my tan. Courtesy of a magic little bottle produced by St Ambre of Solaire. Mostly my legs, everything else fairly brown (well arms and face and the like, not 'everything', don't want to drive the guests away. Well maybe just some of them.) So the summer was drawing to a close and there was still some magic potion left in the can so I thought I might as well carry on using it, delay the pasty look as long as poss. And then one day I happen to look at the bottom of my feet. Can't remember why now, funny thing to do. Anyway, they were a deep shade of orangey tan. Horror of horrors, for a moment I thought I had some terrible disease, but then I twigged. As I'm spraying my legs in the bathroom, some of the amber nectar must fall to the floor, which I then walk in on a daily basis and there you have it - the soles of my feet were the brownest part of my body. I have not touched the stuff since (the fake tan I mean, I've touched my feet -I've been scrubbing them everyday with jif and one of those metal scourer things that your granny always has by the sink.) Talk about shock tactics to make you give up your addiction. Will have to have a re-think for next year. After all, it's only part of the brand image that I should look serene and healthy and tanned and what have you for our arriving guests. ('Living the Brand' remember that shit? Ha ha! Never could figure it out at the time, but now I know!)

A few pics from late summer

Georgia and Grandad on his train, in our garden

Autumn sunrise at our place

Smudge, happy to be home, chilling with the girls dirty socks

Quiz of the week 2

Just remembered something my dear husband said to me the other day, I was gobsmacked. I bought some new shoes (because I needed them, not because I wanted them) and he had the nerve to suggest that I have too many shoes, I'm always buying shoes and I think he was about to call me Imelda, except he noticed the steam rising off me and stopped himself.

Therefore the non-weekly 'Quiz of the week' this week is:

Do you agree?

Here is my shoe history since, in fact prior to, arriving in France (four years ago):

Brough over with me from uk and still using now:

- One pair of summer sandaly type shoes
- One pair of heeled boots
- One pair of trainers
All of the above bought around the time Isabella was born, so about six or so years old and still wearing them now.

One pair of wellies bought when we first got here, cost at the time around £10.00, still wearing them now

One pair of trainers after about a year of being here, still wearing them now (the others above are garden/working trainers)

One pair of winter shoes that I bought the first year we were here, still wearing them now.

Two pairs of flip flops, a few quid each

One pair of fancy sandals for my brother's wedding, about £12.00

One pair of crocs mammoth (Yes, I know they are exceedingly ugly, but they are purple and they are practical. We have a stone floor in the kitchen, cold in summer, bloody freezing in winter and I needed something I could wear in there in winter and also potter about garden in - ie to fetch washing, gather veg, shout at kids etc. I promise I do not wear them out anywhere. Ever.)

And the lastest addition which just about had me admitted to rehab: A pair of shoes for autumn/spring wear - the sandals are too cold and let the wet in and my winter shoes/trainers are to hot.

Seriously, after four years, (six, even) is this excessive?

Note: Anyone who even considers agreeing with my husband, we are considering a trip to the uk in the near future and I know where you live. Mind you, we'll only be over if we can get on the boat as stowaways, not easy with two kids, a car and a top box.

Adrian's poems 3

What have I done wrong? Adrian has just handed me three pages of A4 full of poetry to add to his poetry corner and my mother has just handed me a bag full of quinces, that she very kindly picked off the tree, and asked me to cook them up, apparently they liked the 'quince mush pie' from the other day (see previous post). I'm not going through all that again - maybe quince crumble this time with some stewed quinces on the side to go in the freezer along with the stewed plums, stewed apples and stewed peaches.

I Remember

I watch the seagulls way up high
On the wind they gently fly
Down below, is that a fish they spy
Probably just a chip from a passerby

The harbour sign says don't feed the birds
I know one of them is in the herds
Of people walking, milling around the shops
It must be summertime, out come the flip flops

Walk on past the Golden Hind
A scale model of the real kind
Of boat that sailed long ago
It's so small, how could they all live below
Inside it's tiny, really small
But outside the masts were pretty tall

I've seen it before and walk on by
My rod in hand hoping to try
To land the big one, take home and fry
I walk to the breakwater, tide is high
The sun beating down from the sky

It's a hot one today, I'll need my cap
Fished here so often, don't need a map
I think I know every inch of Brixham
The men with their nets trying to fix 'em

We'd sit there with our lardy cake
The flask of coffee my mum would make
But something's really wrong this day
On my own, someome special's far away

But they're never coming back
When fishing we'd always have a crack
It's just like he's still with me you know
Hey son, more lardy cake, can't say no
To my Dad, I miss him so


Fishing

Sometimes I'd go fishing hoping to catch
A nice flat cod or even a batch
Of lovely things to take back home
All dressed in red, I'm like the garden gnome
But I'd still go whether rain or snow
Winter fishing is so cold you know

The bait was expensive, but I'd have to pay
To give me a chance of cod that day
To see my rod go nod, nod, nod
Could it be, could it be cod
The rod bent over in I struck
A pull on the other end said I'm in luck
Once on land a sigh of relief
But I always had the belief
That I would land that winter cod
With my favourite lucky rod

Once I'm home all warm and dry
In my bag, expectant eyes would pry
To see if I had caught that day
'It was worth the cold' my wife would say

I still remember when
My dad first took me fishing then
It's sometime in the summertime
I'd got a new rod and it's mine
He showed me how to bait a hook
Cast the rod, sit back and look
At the end of that rod, float or line
Sitting, wishing for a sign

Those fish sat looking at my bait
But those early days I could not wait
To reel it in and see if I
Had caught my first fish, but bait still dry
'Oh well, maybe next time' my dad would say
Remember son there's always another day

There's more to come, but I'm having a break....

Tales from the French kitchen

Doesn't that sound like a nice title? I bet you're thinking of me in my pinny, reeling off little anecdotes as I'm cooking up delights from home-grown produce and locally shot fluffy little bunnies, in my 'authentic' french kitchen (the kind you see in glossy magazines, not like our neighbours actual real french kitchens) with a herbs drying over the aga and a lovely old aged dresser full of preserves etc etc etc.

Well no. This is more of a sorry tale of culinary mishaps. I shall first expain about my cooker, (electric and left by previous owners). Ever since we've been here (nearly four years now), I've unable to make one decent cake or decent pie, none of them cook right through properly and tend to burn on top, they are edible, but only just and I was not proud of them. I thought I had lost all my baking skills since moving to these foreign parts. When I cooked muffins I put it down to the little silicone muffin moulds that I had bought (can't get paper cases over here). I always thought that it took a long time to heat up, but just accepted that that was because it was a bit old.

Then recently I realised that nothing was cooking underneath, not even thin pizzas, and also realised that in order to cook anything, I was putting it right up at the top shelf. Eventually my brain cogs strated to whirr into life and I had a thought - 'why not test the cooker to see if it's working properly?'. I switched on the cooker and waited, then I bravely put my hand in, touched the bottom, it was not hot. Room temp at most. Appears therefore that the bottom element is not working and so, for the past four years, I have not been cooking anything, I have in fact been grilling everything. Grilled roasts, grilled pies, grilled pizzas, grilled cake and so on.

I've since baked a couple of batches of muffins in my mother's oven and they were perfick! Just need to find someone to fix the oven now.... My dad has said that he will do it, but then he made a built-in in wardrobe in my bedroom when I was young and it took him 9 months so am not holding my breath.

Anyway, onto this weeks cooking fest. We have a quince tree in our garden, which produced fruit in 2006 and I duly made quince jam from it, which quite frankly was so bland it was not really edible. After a couple of years of nothing from it, this year we had another crop. I have been watching them ripen on the tree (not constantly, just check on them from time to time), wondering what to do with them. Didn't want to make more jam as we have enough of the stuff in the cupboard now and of course memories of the tasteless batch. Anyway, happened to have a minute to switch on the tele the other day and came across Phil (Vickery) on This Morning cooking quinces. Oh joy! It was meant to be I decided, I must do as Phil says. I chose 'Delicous baked quince pie'.

So I went and picked first batch of quinces. Put them in pot to simmer away, at least 45 mins to an hour and a half said Phil. 'However', he said, 'It is important not to allow them to explode'. So I left them and took Isabella to school (Adrian was in house, I'm not entirely irresponsible), came back, remembered to check them, still rock hard. Go into study to faff about ordering wood for fire for winter (nothing like being organised, it was 1 October). Forget all about quinces. Eventually remember, run into kitchen. Too late, am greeted by quince mush, they have exploded. Fortunately, I had left the lid on. Then have to peel and core quinces, which for me now involves searching for bits of peel and core in amongst the debris. Having done this, I am then set to to make the 'buttery caramel sauce'. I follow instructions to a 't' and end up with a hard lump of toffee in middle of puddle of melted butter. Adrian beats it up a bit and rescues it.

Next - 'slice quinces and arrange attractively in dish where the caramel sauce is waiting'. I tip quince mush into dish and mix in sauce. I top with puff pastry and put into oven for a good grilling. It was ok, Adrian liked it, Isabella ate it, Georgia refused to even try it, even though it was pink and normally she cannot resist anything pink. (must have been swapped at birth, not my child) and I fed the leftovers to the lions, sorry my parents.

So having strained the mush before putting it into the dish I was left with a fair bit of quince syrup. Not wanting it to go to waste, I decide to turn it into quince jelly (like jam, but smooth). Not knowing how much sugar was in the syrup, I have to guess quantities and just bung a bit more in, boil it up and managed to get a set upon testing. Have decanted it into jars and it looks nice enough - all pink and firm, with just a little wobble to it. Haven't tried it yet, but hopefully something good will have come out of all this. Just have to decide what to do with remaining quinces that are ripening on tree and waiting to be picked.....